Wander
by Foxy'sGirl
Summary: Astrid's loneliness takes her down a strange, uncomfortable path. Solo.


00000

Astrid can't sleep. She doesn't know whether it's the pebble sized hail plinking against the roof or the fact that she spent the day doing household chores instead of flying around the island. Whatever the reason, it must be nearing midnight and her eyes aren't the slightest bit itchy or tempted to close.

She rolls onto her back and curls her toes in her summertime wool blanket, fidgeting to get comfortable. It takes three tries to get her hands comfortable, folded across her stomach. She inhales through her nose and exhales through her mouth, counting to ten and waiting to relax.

It doesn't happen. Of course.

She shifts again, wincing as the floor creaks under her bed's wooden frame and freezing. This bed isn't as steady as it used to be, too many years with her tossing and turning taking its toll. It doesn't seem like she woke anyone up and she hazards shifting, placing her feet flat on the bed and bending her knees so that the hollow of her back can flatten and stretch. It feels good, she's sore from laundry and leaning over and scrubbing isn't her favorite exercise to begin with.

A flight would be nice right now, or an hour with her axe, or a spar, or a run, or _anything_. Something to get her heart rate up, to give her that satisfying breathlessness of sore, stretched muscles.

She slides her hand underneath her shirt, scratching an itch along the line of her rib and lingering for a moment. The cold hand feels good, not exactly relaxing, but good and she shifts again against her bedframe, biting her lip.

Should she?

It might help her sleep.

And it has really been a while since she and Hiccup have had any sort of alone time. What with him being so busy as chief and his mother being constantly present in his house it's been…well, it's been a really long time since _anything_ happened, now that she thinks about it.

Not anything more than a peck that she can put a date too, and suddenly it's not so surprising that she's laying here awake, staring at the ceiling. The hail picks up and it makes her brave, drowning out the creak as she shifts a little more to get comfortable, spreading her knees and sliding her hand down to rest against the waist of her thin night leggings. She drums her fingers against the fabric, biting her lip and sighing.

She tickles the skin stretched across her hips, getting herself started down that familiar friendly path, the surefire route she discovered years ago, back when she couldn't quite invite Hiccup along with her. In retrospect, it probably would have happened as soon as she made it happen, but there was something blocking her, something sentencing her to lonely ventures in a too creaky bed.

Something less obvious but no less effective than being chief.

Not that she isn't proud of Hiccup for being chief. She understands that it's going to take up a good deal of the aimless time that he used to spend with her. And there is something special about Hiccup taking control of situations, that steely look in his green eyes as he stares down Spitelout's frequent dissents and wrangles the cacophony of voices back on track. She does like that part quite a bit more than she probably should.

Her hand slips under the waistband of her leggings, sliding down to fiddle with the thatch of curls between her legs. Chief Hiccup is definitely nice, different, but nice. It's stronger somehow, more confident in a way she understands. She feels caught up on the concept rather than chasing after understanding the 'Pride of Berk' charm.

She wonders what he'd do if she told him how much she likes the title. Not in a power-hungry sort of way, as a joke, sort of. Maybe she wants to call him Chief Hiccup and let him drag her into his bedroom. She bites her lip at the thought, the trail to her destination suddenly a bit clearer.

In her head, he doesn't bother with being bashful or gloating or chatting, she calls him _Chief_ and he grabs her by the shoulders, pressing her up against his bedroom door and hiking her thigh around his hip. She loves it when he does that, when he pins her so close against his body that she can feel absolutely everything, feel how much he wants her. She wants him to rip off her armor, to really tug her close. Maybe it happens right there against the wall, half-clothed with splinters digging into her back.

That's it. That's absolutely the ticket.

She slides her hand down further and searches for the spot for a moment, finding that sensitive little bud with a sigh through her teeth and starting to rub it slowly. It's better when Hiccup does it, long clever fingers playing against her, testing her. A moan slips out and she bites her lip harder, shifting carefully against the bed and yanking the furs up to her chin as an extra layer of privacy.

And in her head it's not a bumbling logistical sort of thing, he shoves her up against the wall, rips off her leggings and starts touching her. He teases her until it almost hurts, kissing the side of her neck and holding her leg tight around his waist while she struggles with the ties to his pants. She used to hate it when he teased her, resent the delayed gratification, but he always makes it worth her while. In her mind, she finally gets his pants down, gets her hands on him, and he's pressing her tight to the door and sinking in with one of those unbearably hot grunts that he never seems to notice.

Her fingers quicken between her legs, imagining the rhythm he'd develop, the way he'd hold her hips almost too tight and _thrust_ into her, her head bouncing against the wood of the door as she locked her ankles around his waist. She bites her lip against a moan and rocks accidentally into her hand, barely registering the creaky wood because it's starting to build, white hot coals pooling in the pit of her stomach.

And he'd kiss her, like he always kisses her, hot and sweet and beseeching against her neck. She'd struggle to return the favor, lips wet beneath his ear as he'd drive her towards that unintelligible edge, pressing in and in and in. She arches into her fingers, biting down on the inside of her cheek until she almost tastes blood, trying to hold in the sound. If she lets it out, some of the feeling might escape too.

She thinks about the thin, strong waist to wrap her legs around. The way he hits just right inside of her. His hair sliding between her fingers.

Strong arms on either side of her, holding her against the wall.

Yes, in her mind he's _going_, hard and fast and sweet. Her fingers start to lock up, rubbing in stiff little circles against that sensitive bump, jerky and sincere as her hips rock in shallow tandem.

She's almost there, so impossibly close and her mind reaches out for that last little nudge, the last little shove over the edge. She focuses on the arms, so strong and secure on her hips, none of that wobbling urgency that should have sent them tumbling back onto the bed ages ago.

It's a strange new thing to think about, and somehow thrilling enough for that last inch, and she clenches and finishes with the last strange thought of blue chin tattoos and strong rippling arms.

Wait.

What?

_What_?

She freezes and yanks her hand out of her leggings, sitting up straight and looking around the room like someone could have seen the taboo inside of her head. Did she…did she say anything? She claps a hand over her mouth and panics, afterglow lost to blind horror.

How—why—she shakes her head, like it'll clear the potent image stuck in the front of her mind. She pretends that it worked.

It worked. Astrid never thought about that, nope. Never happened. She never thought about Eret holding her so tight to the wall—

Nope. She's never going to think about this again.

This secret belongs eternally between her and this creaky bed.

She lays back down and curls into a tight ball on her side, jerking the blanket up over her shoulder and pretending that she'll be able to fall asleep.

00000

**Maybe this is a oneshot build off of that last mental image that was too hilarious not to write. Astrid sitting stock straight in bed, looking around to make sure no one saw what she accidentally just thought about. **


End file.
